


You Feel First Kiss Good

by Jiksa



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Smut, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you want more lube?”</p><p>“No,” Patrick mutters, crossing his arms over his flushed face. He sounds resigned now, past anxious and frustrated, well into disappointed and, if Pete isn’t mistaken, edging on embarrassed. “Just give me a minute.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Feel First Kiss Good

**Author's Note:**

> Biggest thanks to [immoral_crow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow) for beta reading and for being the most supportive bear to be creative around.
> 
> Warnings for Patrick being 17 and sex that starts off a little faily and hurty.

“Do you want more lube?”

“No,” Patrick mutters, crossing his arms over his flushed face. He sounds resigned now, past anxious and frustrated, well into disappointed and, if Pete isn’t mistaken, edging on embarrassed. “Just give me a minute.”

Pete sighs, brushing the hand that isn’t drenched in KY against the fleshy inside of Patrick’s left thigh. He dips his fingertips into the grooves of slowly fading pink stretch marks without thinking, trying to soothe the anxiety bubbling in his gut. It’s a testament to how out of it Patrick is that he doesn’t complain or twist away or lift his arms to glare accusingly at Pete. He just lies perfectly still, everything in him coiled tight like a spring. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Patrick insists, but he sounds sullen and he hasn’t been hard for a while, so Pete can’t help but take that with a grain of salt. “Just give me a minute.”

Pete stays mostly still, running a hand gently over the insides of Patrick’s thighs and his lower belly. He’s careful not to touch his dick and even more careful not to move the four fingers still buried inside him. There isn’t really anything sexy about this anymore, there’s been too much pain and whining and pushing since they started for that to still be the case. Patrick is still vice tight around his fingers and Pete can swear that’s Patrick’s _heartbeat_ thrumming around his own knuckles. The muscles around his fingers flutter occasionally, small twitches when Patrick shifts a fraction of an inch. Pete assumes it’s involuntary, unlike how the muscles worked around him when Patrick was bearing down earlier, trying desperately to accommodate Pete through the burn.

“Trick,” Pete tries after a few moments of radio silence. Patrick huffs out an irritated, wet sound against his crossed forearms. His fingers are wrapped tight around each tricep, blunt nails pressing into the pale flesh. “Maybe we should—“

“Just—more whiskey,” Patrick interrupts. Pete thinks Patrick could probably reach it himself, but that would involve sitting up and moving around with Pete’s fingers still inside of him, which doesn’t seem likely to end well for either of them. “I just need to relax.”

That easily settles it for Pete. He’s not into this if Patrick has to drink his way through it. They can try again a different time. If Pete gets his way, they’ll have an entire lifetime to figure this out. “I’m going to pull out,” Pete warns. “I don’t think—“

Patrick does glare at him this time, looking thoroughly betrayed. “You don’t want to fuck me?”

Of course Pete wants to fuck him. He’s wanted to fuck him since he first opened his front door wearing knee socks and argyle, since he first opened his mouth to sing behind his shitty old drum kit in his mother’s basement. He’s wanted to fuck him since that first time Patrick leaned close at a rest stop in the middle of the night between somewhere they’d been and somewhere they were going, when his lips parted and his breath hung in the frozen air between them and Pete met him halfway. He’s wanted to fuck him since that first time Patrick rutted up against him in a messy motel bed, frantic and beautiful and moaning quietly against Pete’s hand over his mouth, while Joe and Andy slept in the bed beside them. He’s wanted to fuck him for as long as he can remember, but first times are _important_ and he needs to get this right for Patrick. He shakes his head. “Maybe we should just sleep.”

Patrick immediately reaches down and pushes Pete’s hand out of him with no fanfare. “Go wash your hands,” he says, bringing his legs up against his chest and hugging his knees. His cheeks are flushed deep red and he’s looking at the sliver of light spilling of the motel bathroom. His eyes look suspiciously shiny and it breaks Pete a little. He reaches for him, but Patrick shrinks back against the headboard. “It’s gross. Please wash your hands.”

“It’s not gross,” Pete argues weakly, because it kind of is, but he’s emotionally invested enough in this that it doesn’t matter as much as it otherwise would. There are more important things right now. “Hey, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Patrick says in a small voice, and Pete doesn’t really understand why, or how things went this pear-shaped, or what he can say to make things better. “You should get to fuck your boyfriend.”

Pete frowns, crestfallen at the tone in Patrick’s voice. Patrick knows Pete’s been with a lot of people, that there have been numerous girlfriends and fuckbuddies and one night stands before him. He knows that’s a sore spot for Patrick, that he’s worried he doesn’t measure up, that he isn’t experienced enough or smart enough or good enough for Pete. It’s a laughable proposition to anyone but Patrick, but he doesn't see it that way. “It’s cool, we’re both a little nervous. You haven’t really done a lot of this stuff yet, it gets better with practice. I promise.”

Pete reaches for him again, but Patrick actually flinches this time, brow furrowing over his still averted eyes. Pete has fucked up, that much is abundantly clear. He's off his game for some reason, has never been this nervous with anyone else he's fucked before. “I think you’re awesome,” he says softly, pleadingly. “I really like you, it’s not just about sex for me.”

“Great,” Patrick snaps, sniffling a little. “Because you’re obviously not going to get any of that from me. That shit fucking _hurts._ ”

Pete sighs, flexing the fingers of his lubed-up hand and rotating the wrist to work the stiffness out of his joints. It isn’t the first time he’s fingered Patrick, but it’s the first time they’ve tried to take it this far. They hadn’t really talked about fucking until about a week ago, when Patrick had gone looking for batteries in Pete’s shit and had stumbled across the condoms he’d stashed in his backpack before they’d left for this last tour. “Um,” Patrick had muttered, holding up a stupidly long strip of ribbed Trojans and looking mildly horrified. “Pete?”

Pete had given a small, guilty shrug, trying to suppress a grin at the color blooming in Patrick’s cheeks. “Just in case,” he’d said casually, mindful that Patrick was still mostly pure as freshly fallen snow and still _actual_ jailbait in some states. “If you wanted to.”

Patrick had ducked his head a little, the rim of his trucker cap obscuring his face as he studied the rubbers in his hands. “Do you?” he’d asked after a while, meeting Pete’s eyes with an unreadable expression. “I mean. Want to… with me?”

“You have no fucking idea how much,” Pete had replied breathily before his brain had a chance to weigh in with an appropriate strategy. He’d hastily amended, “When you’re up for it. No pressure.”

“Hmm,” Patrick had said noncommittally, tucking the rubbers back into Pete’s backpack and going next door to ask Joe and Andy for batteries. Pete had already been asleep when Patrick had snuck back into their motel room later that night, curling up in his arms like he usually did. They’d jerked each other off the next morning and things had gone back to normal after that.

Until their next motel night, when they’d drunk a third of a bottle of whiskey and Patrick had pressed up against him like a wanting little thing and asked if Pete wanted to fuck him. Pete had rolled him onto his back and accidentally explained in great technicolor detail just how badly he wanted to be inside of Patrick’s sweet ass, how he couldn’t wait to feel him tight and hot and slick around him, how his ass was the thing wet dreams and jerk-off fantasies were made of.

It was meant to be dirty talk, sweet talk even, but now the whiskey’s worn off and he can’t help but re-frame it as pressure and expectations, and things that have ultimately ended up hurting Patrick. “It’s not meant to hurt,” he says apologetically. “Maybe I went too fast.”

“Or maybe I’m just a bad fuck.” Patrick pulls the covers over his knees, sounding thoroughly defeated, like this is somehow concrete evidence that he can’t keep up with Pete. “Can you please just go wash your hands?”

“You are not a bad fuck,” Pete sighs. His right hand is still sticky and smells like plastic and sweat and the inside of Patrick’s body, but he doesn’t want to leave Patrick like this. “I love the shit we do together, I love your mouth and your hands and how you feel against me. I don’t have to fuck your ass to get off with you.”

Patrick scoffs, disbelieving. “But you want to.”

There’s no point in lying, Pete supposes, not after how transparent he’s already been. “Yeah, if you want to. If you don’t, we don’t have to. Some guys don’t like getting fucked, and that’s cool, too.”

Patrick finally looks at him, inspiring a renewed wave of anxiety in Pete’s gut. “Do you?”

Pete cringes a little inwardly. “It’s not my favorite thing,” he says neutrally. “But sometimes, if the mood strikes, sure. Why, do you want to fuck me?”

Patrick sighs and rubs his eyes. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” Pete says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. They’ve only been doing this for a few weeks, but it’s become abundantly clear that Patrick likes it on his back, or on his knees, or underneath Pete any way he can get it. Pete’s slipped him a finger during a fair few blow jobs already, but Patrick has yet to express any interest in reciprocating. “It’s not really my thing. And it’s cool if it isn’t yours either.”

Except for how Pete is pretty convinced that it is Patrick’s thing, by how he fists his hands in Pete’s hair and digs his heels into the mattress and moans open-mouthed and wanton with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, how quickly and gracelessly he comes in Pete’s mouth, how hard he clenches around Pete’s one or two careful fingers when he unravels around them.

“I want to,” Patrick says again, and he actually sounds like he means at this time. He drops his chin down to rest on his knees, looking up at Pete through pale blonde lashes. He looks innocent, younger than his 17 years, and it reminds Pete again how vulnerable Patrick is in his hands. How so many things they do together are firsts for him. “I just didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete whispers, leaning in to press his forehead against Patrick’s. He runs his clean hand through the baby hairs at the nape of Patrick’s neck, pressing him closer. He wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t know if that would be okay. “I just wanted to make you feel good. Maybe I went too fast.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick mumbles, pressing his own hand against the back of Pete’s and leaning heavily against him. “I kind of freaked out. Just wanted to be good for you.”

“You’re already _perfect_ for me,” Pete says firmly, pulling back to search Patrick’s eyes for evidence that he gets that. He doesn’t quite know what he sees in return, but it seems soft, trusting, fond. “I want you, not your ass.”

Patrick giggles a little, the sweetest little embarrassed sound. “Okay, okay. Can we try again sometime?”

Pete feel safe to kiss him now, and he tilts Patrick’s chin with his thumb until their lips are brushing. Pete’s tongue sweeps against Patrick’s lips until they part, and then he swallows the whimper that leaves Patrick’s throat. Patrick’s legs relax, dropping sideways to accommodate Pete’s body between them. Patrick’s arms come around Pete’s torso, pulling him closer. This is Pete’s favorite part, how pliant and responsive Patrick is for him. “Yeah,” Pete agrees, biting gently on Patrick’s lower lip and tearing another whimper from his mouth. “Next hotel night, if we get a room to ourselves. I’ll put on some Marvin Gaye, get you really nice and warmed up, eat you out for hours if you want me to.”

Patrick frowns at him, like he doesn’t think he’s being serious. And, sure, okay, Pete doesn’t think it’s likely that they have any Marvin Gaye CDs in the van, but he’s willing to track one down first chance he gets. “Eat me out?” Patrick asks skeptically. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Pete promises, brushing a thumb over the rising flush in Patrick’s cheek. Pete’s been trying to take it slow with him, hasn’t wanted to overwhelm or freak him out, but he’s been dreaming of burying his face in his ass since the first time he got Patrick out of his pants. “I’d like to.”

Patrick’s face is bright, beautiful red, but he doesn’t look away this time. “I know you think I’m pretty, but you do know I’m not actually a girl?”

The penny drops with a resounding metallic ring and Pete bites the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing. “Come shower with me,” he murmurs, nuzzling Patrick’s nose. “I guess we are kind of gross.”

Patrick takes Pete’s offered hand and follows him into the shower. It’s a rickety old thing with laughably low water pressure, and it takes forever for Pete to adjust the water temperature to a comfortable level. Patrick stands flush against his back while he fucks with the dials, his forehead resting against the back of Pete’s neck, as though he can avoid being seen if he just stays close enough. Patrick had made him turn the lights off in the room itself, but under the harsh fluorescent light over the bathroom mirror, Pete can see Patrick’s body in all its glory, in all its perfection and imperfection. He can’t help but glance at the mirror, to take in Patrick’s pale, thick thighs, his round, meaty ass, the stretch marks that curve around his hips, the swell of his fleshy belly where he’s pressing it against Pete’s lower back. He doesn’t really understand what it’s like to be that self-conscious about his body. He wishes Patrick didn’t understand either.

Before Pete can protest, Patrick is shampooing his meticulously straightened hair and guaranteeing that Pete will have to wake up 30 minutes earlier tomorrow morning to tame it back into submission with his usual combination of heat and product and frustration. Patrick is one of the few people in the world who’ve seen Pete’s hair in its natural state since he started straightening it regularly.

“You have an _afro_ ,” Patrick had said strangely the first time he saw it, as Pete was toweling off at a rest stop in Michigan. Pete had hastily pulled a beanie over the mop and grumbled as he climbed into the backseat of the van. Hours later, he'd woken up with his head in Patrick’s lap and Patrick’s fingertips gentle against his scalp. He couldn’t find his beanie for days after that, until he rummaged through Patrick’s backpack trying to find Chapstick one night and found it tucked into a side pocket.

He closes his eyes and lets Patrick take care of him. They get clean and Patrick gets handsy again. Before Pete knows it, he has to valiantly stop Patrick from dropping to his knees with a hand under his armpit. As appealing as a shower blow job sounds, they have a bed to themselves and precious time to waste on each other.

"Come to bed with me," he says instead, handing Patrick a towel. The twin sized bed they were on last has a visible wet spot, no doubt slick with lube from when Patrick sat up earlier. Pete tucks the condoms and lube back into his backpack and slips into the clean bed beside it. He doesn’t bother with underwear. Patrick joins him moments later, slipping quickly underneath the sheets and pressing himself flush up against Pete again. He’s noticeably hard against Pete’s hip, and Pete rolls him onto his back and presses him into the mattress and kisses him. They’ve done this before, grinding and rutting up against each other and fucking into each other’s hands, but Pete has other plans. He wants to make things up for the disaster earlier, make him come so hard he sees stars.

“Roll over,” he murmurs into Patrick’s ear once he’s loose-limbed, panting and leaking in Pete’s hand. Patrick goes willingly and wiggles until Pete’s dick is flush against his crack. Pete keeps his hips painstakingly still and spends a long time pressing kisses to Patrick’s temple, his cheeks, the back of his neck, his shoulder blades. He links their fingers together and presses Patrick into the mattress, the way he knows Patrick likes. It doesn’t take long until Patrick’s grinding up against him, getting friction from the mattress beneath him and Pete’s dick against his ass. “Shh,” Pete says. He has no doubt that Patrick could get off just like this, but he wants more than that for him now. 

“Pete,” Patrick begs, sounding relaxed and breathy and about ready to blow. “Please.”

Pete has to take a fortifying breath and very explicitly not think about spreading Patrick’s legs and pressing his way into that tight wet heat and fucking him into the mattress until he comes apart beneath him. “Let me eat your ass.”

Patrick stiffens. He twists underneath Pete and turns his head until he meets his eyes. His voice cracks deliciously. “What?”

“I want to use my mouth on you,” Pete explains, running a hand over the warm swell of Patrick’s ass. “You don’t have to kiss me after if it grosses you out.”

Patrick holds his gaze long enough to ascertain that Pete is absolutely not making fun of him and that he is well aware Patrick isn’t a girl. Pete can tell the instant the penny drops for him. “Is that… Um.” He swallows and presses his face into the pillow beneath him. Pete can’t help but grin. He has no doubt that Patrick’s face is bright red once more. His voice sounds muffled when he finally says, “Okay.”

Pete presses another kiss to his temple, a lingering kiss that’s hard and full of things he doesn’t have words for yet. He spreads Patrick’s legs and pulls him up on all fours, careful to keep touching and kissing his skin and staying close to him. “Only if you like it, okay?"

Patrick murmurs an affirmative sound into his pillow. Pete trails a row of kisses down Patrick’s spine, pausing at each vertebra and taking his time. Patrick’s breath catches audibly when he reaches the base of his spine, and Pete gently spreads his ass cheeks apart, runs his thumbs down each side of his crease, taking it all in. Patrick smells clean, but there’s a slight undertone of musk and fresh sweat that makes Pete’s mouth water. He draws the tip of one finger from Patrick’s tailbone across the fuzzy light brown hairs circling his tightly drawn up hole, across his taint and down to cup his balls. Patrick moans and curses and humps the air around his fat, swollen, leaking dick. Pete takes pity on him and spits into his hand before giving him a few slow, loose strokes.

He licks his lips, gets them wet and slick with saliva, before he leans down and touches the flat of his tongue to Patrick’s hole. It’s dead quiet for the first few licks. Patrick holds himself frozen, like he’s been shocked, until a high-pitched whining sound Pete’s never heard before tears from Patrick’s throat and he presses wantonly back against Pete’s tongue.

The muscles in his ass move deliciously under Pete’s hands, and he spreads him wider, presses closer. He closes his eyes and loses himself in it, lapping hungrily at him, taking what he wants and hoping Patrick will want more. He jerks Patrick in time with his licks, trying to move with Patrick’s gyrating hips, and soon Patrick’s legs are trembling all over and he’s moaning nonstop, shameless like Pete’s never heard him before. Pete breaches him with his tongue, fucking his way inside him and Patrick opens up under his mouth, lets him in and begs deliciously for more.

It doesn’t take long before he’s close. Pete can almost taste the orgasm on him, feel how heavy and hard his dick is in his fist, feel him coil tight like a spring, hear his breath catch, and then—

“Stop." Patrick’s voice is a fucking wreck, he’s wet with sweat and spread open for Pete like a feast. “Condoms," he orders, panting as he tries to pull himself together. Pete can’t help but look at his wet, twitching hole, the hair shiny and matted down with saliva between his cheeks, his balls drawn up close to his body. “I want you inside of me."

Pete gently turns Patrick onto his side again, lying down beside him. He cups Patrick’s cheek, feels the heat boiling beneath his skin. “You sure?"

Sweat clings like dew to Patrick’s forehead, his cheeks are flushed a dark blood red and his bangs are hanging wetly in his eyes. “So sure," he whispers, craning his neck to seek Pete’s mouth. Pete meets him halfway and drinks in his warm, wet breaths. “Feels different now. Better.”

“Yeah?” Pete smiles against his mouth, reaching down to touch his chest, his belly, his sides. Patrick lets him without tensing up or stretching out or flexing his abs, like he’s too relaxed to care about that now. It's a fucking relief. “You taste fucking delicious, you know that?”

Patrick’s nose scrunches up in displeasure. “Don’t,” he whines, glaring at him. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that. _Gross._ ”

Pete laughs and presses a kiss to Patrick’s jaw, before reaching into his backpack for supplies again. “Sure.”

When he comes back, Patrick’s rolled onto his back and spread his legs for Pete, exposing his wet, swollen hole and the hard line of his dick curving up against his navel. It's a fucking sight, Patrick spread out like a willing virgin sacrifice.

Pete makes quick work of the lube and soon he’s two fingers deep in him. Patrick’s back arches beautifully off the sheets, one hand around the back of Pete’s neck and his heels dug deep into the mattress as he grinds down on Pete’s hand. He’s gasping, moaning, begging, a litany of encouraging sounds that Pete drinks greedily from his open mouth. Patrick takes three fingers easily, loose like he’s still stretched from earlier or like he’s finally not nervous anymore. Pete moves to lube up a fourth finger, careful not to hurt him, desperate to make it good for him, but Patrick shakes his head and hugs both of his knees to his chest, spreading his legs impossibly wide. “Come on,” he urges. “Want you.”

And _fuck_. Pete sheaths and slicks himself up with shaking, clumsy fingers, and then he’s on Patrick, holding his legs open for him and leaning as close as he can while Patrick reaches down to guide him inside. There’s a little resistance, and Pete watches Patrick’s brow furrow, watches Patrick work through the tension and bear down and open up and then his eyes roll suddenly back into his head and his mouth parts in a grimace and he digs his nails into Pete’s neck as Pete slides home. “Fuck,” Patrick mewls once he can draw enough breath to speak. “Fuck. God. Fuck.”

Pete frowns. “This okay?”

“So fucking big,” Patrick groans, his face still screwed up against the intrusion. _“Pete.”_

It takes every inch of restraint Pete has to stay still once he bottoms out, deliciously deep inside Patrick’s warm, yielding body. He strokes Patrick’s cheek again, his thumb slipping in a droplet of sweat near his eye. “Does it hurt?"

“Burns," Patrick mutters, meeting Pete’s gaze. His eyes are unfocused, wild, _hungry_. He’s more beautiful than Pete has ever seen him, and Pete has to lean down to mash their mouths together and swallow every broken sound that leaves Patrick’s. “Mostly okay."

Pete feels drunk with the feel of him. It's never felt like this with anyone else. “Do you want me to fuck you? Or just hang here for a while?”

The hand around Pete’s neck slips down his side before wrapping tight around Pete’s hip. Patrick bucks experimentally up against him and they both curse at the feel of it. Pete presses his forehead to Patrick’s, almost dizzy with anticipation. He feels a flutter of movement against his belly and realizes Patrick has started jerking himself off – hard and fast and desperate.

“Want you to fuck me,” Patrick pants, twisting up against him. “Just – fast. It’s better when you’re moving."

Pete pins him down and starts thrusting into him, letting Patrick’s hand on his hip set the pace. He does want it fast, and Pete tries to give him what he wants without blowing his load in seconds. Patrick doesn’t last long either, and Pete sees a creamy white stripe shoot across his chin before Patrick tightens up all over, his whole body shuddering under and around Pete. Pete licks the come from his skin, tasting Patrick salty and bitter as he snaps his hips a final time and comes embarrassingly fast and devastatingly hard.

Patrick stays still until Pete’s stopped shuddering, his legs loosening their grip around Pete’s hips and his body melting back down into the mattress below him. He looks heavy, sated, completely, shamelessly and beautifully fucked out. “Can we–” he says after that, and then there’s an uncoordinated scramble to dispose of the condom and wipe lube and come off Patrick’s skin, to kiss lazily and giggle breathlessly into each other's mouths, and then to pull the sheets back over them and to get warm and entangled and still.

“So much for the next hotel night,” Pete mumbles once Patrick’s wrapped him up like the littlest of spoons. He feels dizzy with exertion and adrenaline and endorphins, so exhausted and so, so sleepy. Maybe they should talk, but it doesn't feel like they need to say anything. 

“Mmm,” Patrick hums, linking their fingers together. He presses a kiss to the nape of Pete’s neck, burying his face in Pete's stupidly unruly curls. “I liked that.”

Pete smiles, squeezing Patrick's hands in his and hugging them tight to his chest. "Me, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pete's [blog entry dated November 13, 2003.](http://disloyalorderofpete.tumblr.com/post/49632653877/you-feel-first-kiss-good-nov-13-2003)
> 
> Fun fact: this whole thing was written using speech recognition software, a microphone and no hands.  
> 
> 
> [tumblr](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/jiksax) | [email](mailto:ifckfairies@gmail.com?Subject=Hey%20girl)  
> 


End file.
